CCLXXXIV — Song
‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried;
‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe;
He hath left his name to be magnified
In a song of wonder and woe.’
‘Alas! I am well repaid,’ said she, 5
‘With a pain that stings like joy;
For I feared, from his tenderness to me,
That he was but a feeble boy.
‘Now I shall hold my head on high,
The queen among my kind. 10
If ye hear a sound, ’tis only a sigh
For a glory left behind.’
George MacDonald.